Shifting Balances
by Trinitas
Summary: In an otherwise canon world, House, Wilson, and their respective dæmons navigate the beginnings of a relationship. Complete in three parts. Warning in part 1 for mature content. AU from late S3.
1. Not Just A Puzzle

Not Just A Puzzle

"This is stupid."

House glanced over at Minerva, whose eyes were lambent in the darkness and glaring at him from the front passenger seat. "She's twenty-six, she's hot, and we don't get out much. This is an opportunity."

"She's an idiot," his raccoon dæmon said disdainfully. "She's a _squirrel_, for God's sake! We have higher standards than to stoop to a squirrel just because you won't put the effort into a functional relationship."

House braked for the light. "You're just mad because if I do get lucky with her, it'll be casual sex and you won't get anything out of—_ow_!" She'd nipped his hand. Not hard enough to break skin, but it'd still hurt. "What the hell was that for?"

"Because you're not even interested in sex with her, and we know it. This is just avoidance."

The light changed, and he drove a little farther up the road before pulling over. If his dæmon's tone were anything to judge by, this wasn't a talk they should have while he was trying to drive. "Avoidance of what?"

"Maybe the fact that we could've seriously hurt Wilson when we laced his coffee with amphetamines? We didn't pull his file to check what antidepressant he was on or what else he was taking; we didn't monitor him—"

He gave her a look. "This attack of conscience might've been a little bit more helpful _before_ the fact, don't you think?"

She climbed over the gearshift—thankfully not jostling it out of 'park'—and onto his lap, letting his fingers trace absent designs in gray-brown fur. "We were curious. And when we're working on a puzzle, we never let it go or give a damn about ethics. That's who we are." A short pause. "But that doesn't mean, now that we have the answer, we can't feel guilty about how we got it."

All right, fine, so maybe he did, but still… "And he shouldn't feel guilty about dosing us with antidepressants for _weeks_?" The last thing he needed was to worry about Wilson drugging his food, especially considering how much of his food was bought by or stolen from Wilson in the first place.

"Considering we faked cancer awhile ago to get them implanted directly into your brain," she said dryly, shuffling back off his lap and returning to her seat, "I can see how he might think we wouldn't be completely opposed to taking them."

"As _pain control_, not for depression," he reminded her. "We're not depressed."

"No, we're garden-variety miserable," she retorted. "But we have a friend who _is_ depressed, for a reason he wouldn't tell you and Rona wouldn't tell _me_." He was silent, considering, so she went on, "We knew when he was having an affair, we knew all those times he was divorcing, we figured it out when he was sleeping with his patient, but this he wants to hide?"

Point taken: that was definitely more interesting than a couple of hours in a bar with Honey the Flaky Vegan. If it were bigger than the myriad marital woes, bigger than that screwed up liaison with Grace, then it was sufficiently important to warrant his full attention.

And this seemed like the ideal time to address the matter: it wasn't like Wilson would be asleep, not after a dose of amphetamines that high, and House wasn't so tired yet that he couldn't assemble puzzle pieces if he had to. "Fine," he agreed, pulling back onto the road and turning in the direction of Wilson's hotel. "But just because I happen to be carrying that key card I pilfered from his wallet."

—

Twenty minutes and a little haranguing of the desk attendant later, he and Minerva took the elevator up to Wilson's floor. She shuffled along at his left side, so his cane couldn't accidentally catch her tail (they'd only needed to make _that_ mistake once), and fidgeted with impatience in front of Wilson's door while he dug in his wallet for the key card, then shoved it into the slot and waited for the buzz that signaled the engagement of the mechanism before bursting in.

"You really need to get an apartment," he said without preamble, switching on the lights and smirking when Rona whined and Wilson pulled a pillow over his eyes. "I just wasted"—he checked his watch—"five minutes of my valuable time convincing the idiot at the desk I had a valid reason to see you at two in the morning."

"It'd better be," Wilson groaned, his voice muffled by the pillow, "because the residual amphetamines in my system are doing a fine job of screwing with my sleep without your help. Can you at least be merciful and turn the lights down?"

He dimmed them by about half, then went and sat down on the foot of the bed, lifting Minerva up beside him to save her the trouble of climbing the bedclothes.

Rona's penetrating lupine gaze rested on him for a moment, then she nudged Wilson's arm with a paw, and he sat up, the pillow dropping to his lap. He looked bleary-eyed and exhausted, like he'd been fighting for sleep there was no way he was going to get, and the rumpled sheets suggested tossing and turning.

"What're you doing here?" Rona's eyes had taken on an eldritch glow in the half-dark, and her words, spoken around a yawn, only emphasized Wilson's obvious fatigue.

"Same thing I do when I'm too far away from her," he said, tilting his head in Minerva's direction. "Closing distance."

His dæmon moved from beneath his hand to settle a few inches from Rona's outstretched forepaws. She didn't get too close, since Rona had arranged herself around Wilson's body, but the approach was enough. "Dosing you with amphetamines was over the line," she said for them both. "We weren't actually trying to hurt you."

Rona moved forward a bit and bent her head, touching her muzzle to Minerva's smaller one, and he relaxed as he sensed Wilson's forgiveness: they were essentially okay.

"I know," Wilson said, only a little ruefully. "I should've just told you I was on them, knowing the insane things you do when you're curious."

"There's a fine line between genius and insanity," Minerva said, affronted.

"And you don't need us to tell you which side of it you were on today," Rona countered, curling her lip slightly to expose a glint of teeth. "In the future, there are better, less lethal ways of expressing concern, all right?"

"I _tried_ to just ask you," he reminded Wilson. "You were the one who wouldn't talk." Which was more than slightly hypocritical, considering how much good he seemed to think candid conversation would do House.

"We've been over that," Wilson said dryly, "and given the object lesson, I won't forget it any time soon. Any chance you might let me not-sleep in peace tonight?"

He made a show of exchanging a glance with Minerva, like he was actually considering it, then shook his head. "I still want to know why you went on them in the first place. You've had practically a boatload of reasons to be depressed all year—outside of your regular, extremely depressing practice—so why _now_? What's pushed you over the line into pharmaceutical aid?"

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "You completely blew off the handout of 'respect for others' privacy,' didn't you?"

"Of course," he said. "I went back for seconds in the 'devastating wit and charm' line instead."

"They threw in twice the usual amount of ego for free," Minerva added, giving House a sharp look and saying, _Either help me or shut up. _Then, returning her attention to Wilson, she jerked a paw at Rona and said, "We're trying to take her advice here. Spill."

Wilson sighed and leaned back against Rona's flank, too tired to muster more than a modicum of annoyance. "Did it occur to you—_plural_—that it might not kill you to respect my wishes for once and leave it?"

"'Course it wouldn't kill us," Minerva said. "Do I look like a cat to you?" She took a step or two closer to the wolf dæmon and wheedled, "Come on, Ro. Please?"

Rona looked to Wilson, then back at Minerva and shook her head. "Look. It's nice that you're making an effort for not completely selfish reasons, but we're not on the verge of a breakdown, and other than that, it's not your business."

"Can we not talk in circles?" House said testily, breaking in before Minerva had to argue again that it was indeed their business. "It's late. We're tired. But we're here because you're on antidepressants and we do, in fact, give a damn—so just tell us _why_ you're on them so we can all drop this and go to bed."

When there was no response, he said matter-of-factly, "You know I'll find out in the end—I always do—so you might as well get whatever it is off your chest without making me dig and save us both the trouble."

There was a long, weighty silence; then Wilson sat up, exchanged a look with Rona that House couldn't read and gave a very slight nod. She moved from behind him, a few padding steps closing the distance between them, and House felt his stomach clench, realizing what was about to happen only an instant before she bent her head and maneuvered it beneath his left hand, slightly coarse fur and warmth in an utterly unfamiliar shape.

Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, considering what it meant.

He heard Wilson's breathing hitch and lifted his hand so the sensations flooding the other man's body would stop and let him think straight. "Okay. Can I have something less grand gesture, a little more verbal?"

"I felt…and I was uncomfortable with it," Wilson said, his voice admirably steady. "Especially since—for God's sake, House, you may hate the Icarus metaphor, but most of this year it looked like you were falling and convinced impact was preferable to letting me catch you."

He held Wilson's eyes, guiding Minerva against him with the hand that wasn't suspended above Rona's head. "Contrary to what you seem to think," he said deliberately, "it's not your job to break my fall. I almost let you once, and I didn't like the result." Tritter had nearly broken Wilson's life because House had been too stubborn to bend, defying Wilson's advice and Cuddy's and even Minerva's. If he fell again, he wasn't crushing Wilson under him.

"I'm not saying I'm going to martyr myself for you," Wilson retorted. Then, more quietly, "I want you to let me in—if not that way"—he indicated Rona, his gaze lingering for just a second too long on the hand over her—"then just what we had and I'll understand, but I'm sick of being walled out."

"And between that and being afraid I'd reject this,"—no need to pin it down with a name—"you worked yourself up so much you needed antidepressants. Right?"

Wilson nodded.

"And she didn't just do that because your judgment is coming off drugs?"

Wilson shook his head, and House let his hand fall, threading his fingers through the thick ruff of fur at Rona's neck and listening, satisfied, to Wilson's gasp and Rona's tail thumping softly against the sheets before nudging Minerva forward with his free hand and watching her move, scrambling over Rona's back and reaching to close nimble digits around Wilson's fingers.

Heat shot down his spine to pool in his groin and House managed not to gasp, but just barely: there'd been sex after Stacy, certainly, but most of it had been purchased and none of it meaningful, so Minerva had refused to be touched.

He'd told himself then it didn't matter, that physical pleasure was enough, but this particular intimacy was one he'd missed.

Wilson's free hand stroked Minerva's back, and he grinned when she purred and House stifled a groan. "Tease." Reaching over Rona, he closed his hands around Minerva, taking her from Wilson and setting her on the floor before giving Rona a nudge. "Not room for four bodies. Off the bed. _Off!_" He could hear Minerva chirping, obviously as impatient as he was, and the moment Rona was out of his way he toed off his shoes and scooted up to the head of the bed, crushing his lips against Wilson's and sliding his hands beneath fabric, exploring the planes of back and torso and delighting in the hot exhalation into his mouth.

He let his lips part and his tongue glide over teeth and then past them, stroking Wilson's tongue and palate; the other man's mouth was stale and faintly sour with broken sleep but the kiss, warm lips and tongue moving against his own, was fully satisfying and—oh, definitely not enough; his jeans were becoming uncomfortable and Wilson's hands beneath his shirt weren't helping matters.

He could hear their dæmons by the bedside, Minerva's chattering and purring and Rona's whining and it was loud, but not louder than the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the rustle of the sheets on the bed. Finally, they broke for air, haste-clumsy hands fumbling with clothing, and House was glad of his jeans and t-shirt because they came off as easily as they'd gone on.

And then skin met skin, sensitized and flushed and Wilson's hand closed around him with just enough pressure—he reached forward to reciprocate; Wilson was hot and hard and slightly slick in his fist. The angle was a bit awkward when they moved and his right wrist collided every so often with Wilson's left; but it was only a minor annoyance.

Wilson's breathing was ragged and he managed a strangled, _"Ohmigod!"_ before House resumed the kiss, matching the rhythm of tongue against tongue to that of feverishly stroking hands and rocking hips—heat and need and—oh!—not enough contact—and apparently Wilson thought the same, because he felt the other man's free arm encircle his torso, pull him closer; and he reached with his own unoccupied hand to cup the back of Wilson's head, insinuating his fingers into soft hair and feeling warm, sweat-slick skin against the heel of his hand—awareness began to fall away as sensation promised to consume everything—

Faster—faster—exquisite heat and friction and tension coiled tight and mouth devouring mouth and then—ah!—and _ecstasy ecstasy ecstasy—_wet heat was spilling over his hand and Wilson was shuddering against him, twin cries smothered between them, and then they broke apart, gasping in the hazy warmth of the afterglow.

"_God,"_ Wilson breathed. "Oh God."

He couldn't resist. "Yes?"

"General statement," Wilson managed, "not talking to you." He moved a little, resting his head on House's shoulder and an arm on his torso. "All right?"

"To lie on me after sex?" He raised an eyebrow. "Generally, you're supposed to okay the less intimate thing first and move up, but it'd still be kind of stupid if I decided to have issues _now_."

Wilson chuckled, shook his head faintly. "I didn't mean—I meant…never mind what I meant," he said at last. "It'll—everything'll wait 'til morning."

"We'll be here," Minerva promised, sounding as blissfully sated as he felt. "And it was more than all right."

"We know." Rona's voice was affectionate, but Wilson's exhaustion was there, too, and House glanced over the edge of the bed to see Minerva nestled into the curve of Rona's flank, eyes half-lidded. Rona's were already closed, and he could hear Wilson's breathing slowing and deepening with coming sleep.

He wiped his sticky hand on the edge of the bedspread and pulled the covers in around them, then reached for a pillow and shoved it under his head, feeling…peaceful. Obviously, the combination of post-orgasmic endorphins and the company of a—friend? Partner? Figure it out in the morning—was excellent against restlessness.

He could sleep, and they'd figure everything else out in the morning.

**TBC…**

**Author's Notes:**

You will recognize 'Minerva' as the name of the Roman goddess of wisdom and war (and, as Minerva Medica, patroness of healing and doctors); 'Rona,' although it can also be a Hebraic or Gaelic name, is used with its English meaning: 'counsel power' or 'advisor to the king.' (No explanation needed.)

Raccoons symbolize curiosity, cleverness, unique perception, dexterity and deception; wolves (among other things), guardianship/teaching, perseverance, cunning, intuition, communication, and loyalty to the family group.


	2. And Come Daylight

And Come Daylight

Wilson woke in the dim light of early morning to tangled sheets and the now-unfamiliar sensation of a human body arranged around his, long and lanky with sprawled limbs, one of them thrown over his own torso, and for a split second his sleep-fogged mind was startled; but then the memory of the previous night rushed back and he relaxed. Not entirely, of course; there were still too many unanswered questions for that, but for the moment he was content to lie still.

House's face was relaxed in sleep, most of the lines pain and stress had etched into his craggy features softened; and if Wilson craned his neck a little, he could see Minerva dozing on the floor opposite his bedside, half-curled into a ball that fit neatly into the curve of Rona's flank.

She didn't speak, but the amber-bright eyes that held his were smiling, and he felt the knot of remaining anxiety loosen just a little as he remembered the feeling of House's hands on her; of Minerva's paws, smaller but similarly dexterous, clasping his fingers and the warmth of her fur beneath his palm, coarse but still softer than he might have expected.

All the years of that carefully undefined something between them, the little innuendos and significant looks, and now…what? House wasn't a man to whom one made declarations of love, wasn't a man who would respond well to the sentimental gestures Wilson generally followed first times with—and anyway, having repeated that cycle three times over made it feel tawdry. House deserved—

But that wasn't the question, was it? The question was, how much would he be willing to accept?

When Rona had touched House, he hadn't dared to hope for House to do more than withdraw his hand without insult and not as though burned—reciprocation of the gesture had been off the map of all possibility, and now Wilson had no idea where they were.

The mattress shifted as House rolled over with a sound halfway between a grunt and a groan—born of early morning fatigue more than pain, Wilson hoped—but no; he was awake now, and Minerva was moving away from Rona and to the discarded heap of House's jeans at the foot of the bed, paws reaching deftly into a pocket to retrieve the amber bottle of Vicodin, which she deposited in House's waiting hand before climbing onto the bed and settling down between them.

Two pills later, House put the bottle down on the bedside table and turned over to face him, one upraised hand supporting his chin and the other absently stroking Minerva's fur. Wilson heard his own dæmon's padding footsteps, and next moment she'd gotten up herself, sprawled at the foot of the bed with the weight of her outstretched forepaws resting on his shins.

"Now what?" she asked, speaking for them both.

"I'm not having one of those stupid 'morning after' talks," House said flatly. "Last night filled my deep conversation quota for at least a month."

Minerva gave an exasperated little 'whuff' and met his eyes. "I don't let just any idiot touch me," she said. "I let you. That says enough."

"I know," he said, "but—is this it? Two friends and a one-night stand neither ever talks about again? Or—something else? Lasting?"

"We've been 'lasting' longer than all of your marriages put together," House said. "I push, you preach, we annoy the hell out of each other on a daily basis—but we work. Screwing you is not going to screw with that."

He laughed despite himself, because House wouldn't be House if he weren't tactless. Not romantic words, certainly, but he could think of them as endearing without too much of a stretch. "Okay. I know you hate to talk about feelings, but I don't need that—I just need a label for this. I need to know what it is." A short pause. "You of all people should understand that."

Contemplative silence. "It was a risk," he said at last.

"And what is it now?"

"It's not a regret," Minerva said to him, "and it wasn't a mistake."

To that, House added, "Obviously, sleeping with you threw the House-to-Wilson translation widget out of whack. This is a ridiculous amount of effort to establish that I still respect you in the morning."

Wilson breathed an inward sigh of relief: Minerva's word might have been the last one on the subject if House hadn't spoken and given him an opening. "House, I'm not talking about respect." He paused, deliberated, decided to take the risk of being explicit. "You're not some woman—"

"So glad that detail didn't escape you."

Wilson ignored that. "—I'm going to wine and dine and have an emotionally barren marriage with. I'm not expecting poetry and flowers, but it—it was important. It meant something—"

"Why are you suddenly under the impression I'm slow on the uptake?" House said testily. "If it didn't mean something, you'd have kissed me, slept with me, whatever, but Rona wouldn't've gotten involved and neither would Minerva." Then, with a little less asperity, "Just because I'm not committing left, right and center doesn't mean I can't recognize signals you want a committed relationship."

He didn't entirely trust himself not to make a misstep, so he looked over at Rona, and she stepped in for him. "Frankly, when we're naked in bed with you and thinking of you in the context of 'potential partner,' it's not the best time to bring up our screwed up relationship history. But aside from that…" She paused, met Minerva's eyes and held them. "You're not wrong."

"I'm usually not," House said. Not gloating, just matter-of-fact. "Look. If I want casual sex, I watch porn or pay a hooker. Since last night involved neither of those things, the logical conclusion you seem to be having difficulty coming to is that it was not casual sex."

"I know that—I know you." He made a vague gesture encompassing House and Minerva, clarifying he meant 'in totality.' "What I don't know—"

"Can you quit dissecting this?" Minerva broke in. "You care, we care, it's pretty much a _fait accompli_ by now—or do you even know how it works with dæmons and sex?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. "Point is, we're on the same page here, so stop the goddamn agonizing."

There was a silence.

"You done?" House asked.

"Yeah. That was what I wanted." He'd heard most of it, but for Minerva to admit caring (Minerva, who couldn't lie) was what he'd needed: to know that there had been an emotional basis beyond their friendship and a whim. "You couldn't have said it in the first place?"

"And pander to your post-coital insecurity? She said it to shut you up."

That might have been true, if House had said it, but they both knew Minerva's words carried more weight. Wilson let it pass. "So…what now?"

"You stop talking, we sleep a little more, we go to work, and then you can come back here and move your ass out of this stupid hotel."

He raised an eyebrow. "And do what, move in with you?"

"I certainly wouldn't mind," House said, with a leer he knew was meant to camouflage underlying sincerity. "But seriously—wherever you go, you need to get out of here." He gave the room a cursory glance that Wilson knew still managed to take in everything. "I mean, no wonder you're depressed."

"Thanks so much."

"Hey, friends don't let friends live surrounded by ugly florals."

He shared a look with Rona, remembering the previous time they'd lived with House; remembering hidden dirty dishes transferred to the sink, an uncomfortable three hours on the stoop, stolen food and deleted messages. "We don't live together well, remember? And I can't find a place immediately on such short notice."

"Who said we didn't?" House narrowed his eyes a little. "_I_ said I wanted you to stay."

All right; in retrospect, maybe all those pranks had been House's particular twisted brand of affection, but still… "The message would've been clearer if you'd been a little more conventional about it," he said. "Then I might've felt…wanted, and not like a toy you were playing with."

"You were supposed to play along," House said, as though this should have been obvious. "What, you think I was going to give you space to wallow in the misery of a third failed marriage?"

Rona gave him a sharp look. "Considering we're going to have to make some fairly drastic revisions to our sexual self-identification, could you do us a favor and drop the damn marriages? Because I think it's obvious you no longer have to worry about fending off Mrs. Wilson the fourth."

"Fine. But really, you can't tell us you never saw this coming," Minerva said. "You've touched me more than any of his wives' dæmons, and he's spent more time with Greg than he ever wanted to spend with Julie or Bonnie or—who was the first one?"

"Sarah," he supplied. "And all right, there was an…attraction, but—"

"But God forbid you should act on it and save me the trouble of dressing up in a stupid suit to play best man," House said sourly. "_Three times._ The throwing-the-bouquet thing? They should've just skipped that and passed it to you."

"I apologize," Wilson said dryly, "for the colossal imposition of expecting you to wear a tuxedo." Really, he reflected, it should've been a warning signal when he'd noticed how handsome House had looked before sparing a thought to Julie's smile and gleaming silk gown. "And I'm not going to waste my breath defending my exes."

House smirked. "I assume alimony has soured your affections?"

"More like I've stopped lying to myself about how much affection was there to begin with," he admitted. "I wouldn't have put up with from any of them a tenth of what I get from you, and that…speaks volumes."

"So you're just selectively masochistic."

Anyone else, he would have corrected, but he knew better than to use the particular words that would have required with House. "Call it what you want," he said. "You know what it is."

House's half-smile was mirrored in Minerva's jet-dark eyes. "Yeah," she said. "We do."

—

"Remind me again how you talked me into this?" Wilson said, motioning Rona in ahead of him so he could maneuver his bulky suitcase through House's door. Even though packing hadn't been that much of an effort, he was tired—not least because House had been badgering him all day. "Because I could've sworn I knew better."

Moving into an apartment of his own was a welcome idea in principle—he wanted a home again, not the hotel's impersonal, manufactured hospitality—but moving in with House in the interim… _Been there, done that, had that phone message deleted,_ Rona said wryly.

"You never know better," House said, dropping heavily onto the couch and lifting his right leg onto the coffee table. Minerva climbed up and assumed her usual place beside him, flank pressed against his left thigh and head resting on the corresponding knee. "And with sex in the mix," he continued, "apparently you're downright stupid."

Rona just shook her head as she moved to sit down beside the vacant half of the sofa, and Wilson let the remark pass, because it'd been the rare flash of sincerity beneath House's sarcasm that afternoon that had done the convincing—that and Minerva's assurance that he was welcome and there wouldn't be any pranks this time. "Isn't sex one of those things you say people are always stupid about?" He heaved the suitcase the rest of the way in and shoved it to one side, along with the question of whether he should put it nearer the couch or the bed.

"That and money," House conceded, and Wilson joined him on the couch, leaning back into the cushions with a sigh as he put up his own feet beside the other man's, one arm dangling over the arm of the couch so his hand rested at the base of Rona's neck. "But considering how much we've screwed each other metaphorically," House said, "literal screwing is rational by comparison."

Wilson grinned despite himself. "I stopped trying to apply logic to this relationship years ago, and I'm not starting again now. If anything, it just got more complicated."

"Different complications," House contradicted, and Wilson heard the relish in his voice that usually accompanied the recording of a new symptom on the whiteboard. "Not more. And it'll help if you agonize over them _less_."

"As you're so fond of pointing out," Rona said quietly, "our past relationships haven't turned out well, and we didn't care about that as much as we should have. But if something goes wrong with this—"

"Nothing's going to go wrong," Minerva said, and Wilson envied House's conviction. "Because we've both invested enough in this thing that we're not going to break it."

He met House's eyes, remembered an earnest, 'Maybe I don't want to push this 'til it breaks.' "All the issues that were there before this are still there," he said. "Sleeping together didn't fix them."

"I'm not one of those morons skipping along in rose-colored glasses," House deadpanned, a couple of chirps and a huff from Minerva betraying irritation. "I know that. But it bridged the gap—we're communicating, the cold shoulder has thawed, and the harbingers of the apocalypse are nowhere in sight. So far, I'd say it's all good."

"It won't necessarily stay that way." They'd still argue, fight, get on each other's nerves; all this year's festering wounds would have to be lanced and drained…but maybe now the forgiving would be a little easier. He hoped.

House narrowed his eyes. "Insert that cliché about never having promised you a rose garden," he said sourly.

"I'd suspect an underlying pathology if you did," Wilson countered, because House would never stoop to such a banal display of sentimentality. "But it's a lousy metaphor, because you know the thing about roses?"

"I get the feeling I'm about to."

Rona looked up at him, amber gaze meeting blue. "They're very pretty, right up until the petals fall off and force us to acknowledge the thorns we'd ignored in the first place." Then, grinning, she added, "It made more sense to give up on them and get an honest cactus."

"I repeat: you're masochistic." There was mirth in House's eyes, though, and he said it without venom. "Anyone with an ounce of self-preservation would've run screaming years ago."

"I'm not claiming to be any prize either, House," he said with a crooked smile. "But after all these years, I think we're committed."

"And if we're not, we will be," House said, his smirk making it clear he wasn't using the word in the same sense Wilson had. "And on that note—bed."

Normally, dinner would have been an excuse to stay up later and continue the conversation, but he'd thoughtlessly suggested they eat before leaving work to save himself the trouble of piecing together a meal from the limited contents of House's kitchen.

Then again, it was better to end it on a quasi-meaningful note than try to extend it beyond its natural limits. "Should I take the couch?"

"You should take half the bed, provided you want to sleep," House said. "It's big enough."

"And you mean 'sleep' in which sense?"

"The boring, with-clothes one," he said matter-of-factly. "Although I warn you I'll be very difficult to live with if that's always the case."

"Right, and you're a regular Mr. Congeniality under all other circumstances," he countered, getting up and moving to unzip his suitcase and retrieve a pair of pajamas. This was good: there'd been banter the last few months, sure, but it hadn't felt so comfortable in much too long. "But seriously, I want to feel we're stable where we are, because rushing things hasn't done wonders for me before."

"Depends where you're rushing to," House pointed out. "And this doesn't exactly fall into the same vicious cycle you got into with the wives."

"No," Rona agreed, and then sighed. "We have our own cycle, and part of it is that when you make a mistake that really hurts us—or vice-versa—we sweep it under the proverbial rug and never bring it up again. And that has to change, or else one day we're going to wake up and resent the hell out of each other."

Minerva regarded her for a moment, then met Wilson's eyes. "You know exactly how well those conversations are going to go," she said. "What're you hoping to accomplish?"

"If we stopped ignoring the damage," he said, choosing his words carefully, "and acknowledged what caused it, maybe we could avoid repeating those mistakes." A pause. "You can't tell me you'd be happy to see a reprise of this year."

"No."

"You can't expect us to change," Minerva said. "You know what we're like—to borrow your metaphor, cacti don't turn into perfect, spineless flowers."

"True," he said, looking House in the eye. "But I don't think it'd kill you to be a marginally healthier cactus, and for me to be a better—whatever the hell I am."

"You're a rosebush," House said flatly, "who's wised up and stopped producing flowers." He slid his legs off the coffee table, shifted his weight to the cane and stood up, Minerva following him toward the bedroom. "Now shut up and come to bed."

**END.**


	3. Accepting Limits

Accepting Limits

"I found a place," Wilson said over dinner, his tone too casual. "I can move in in a couple of days."

House knew there was no way Wilson was anything resembling relaxed, not when Rona's pose by his chair was so vigilant. When she sat that way, like she was guarding him, he wasn't comfortable with whatever news he was giving.

Minerva nudged his shin, murmured, _Let me up,_ and he pushed his plate aside, scooted his chair back and reached down to lift her onto his lap, where she arranged herself so the bulk of her weight rested on his good thigh. He'd known that this was coming, had listened to the message and successfully resisted the impulse to delete it—if only because odds were Wilson had heard it already, and would have expected that—but that didn't mean he liked it.

Things had been…good, since Wilson had moved in the previous week. Comfortable. He'd liked the mix of conversational banter and companionable silence in the evenings, and Wilson's cooking (a vast improvement on sandwiches, canned soup and the occasional takeout order), and Wilson's body arranged around his at night, a warm curve like Rona's around Minerva.

There was something to be said for the occasional small dose of human contact.

And while it made sense that Wilson's soap opera of a relationship history would have made him cautious about the possibility of a fourth mistake, this take-it-slow approach, considering how intimate their relationship had been even before sex had entered the equation, struck House as overkill. "You know, sometimes I really don't get you," he said, the fingers of one hand tapping an absent rhythm on the tabletop while the other rested on Minerva's back. "By my standards, I have been a veritable _saint_ for the last week. No pranks, no purposeful extraneous annoyances…I haven't even been pressuring you to put out."

"Admirable, yet unnerving," Wilson said lightly, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. Then, "I do appreciate it, and I'm not moving out because of anything you did. Or didn't do, in this case."

"Considering I've been on my very best behavior, I can believe that," he allowed, letting the restless hand fall still. "But I don't want to know what your reasons aren't—I want to know what they _are_."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, and Rona's expression (less easy to read, but he had the advantage of long practice) suggested surprise. "You're actually…volunteering to have a communicative conversation."

He shrugged. "Inquiring minds need to know."

"Isn't that _want_ to know?"

"Oh, please," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "If they just wanted to know and didn't do anything to pursue the information, they weren't truly inquiring minds. Just idly curious." Minerva climbed from his lap to the table, shoving the abandoned plate out of her way—he could get away with saying less if Wilson could see her—and he tilted his head in her direction. "She settled on that conviction. Believe me, I'd know."

"And now you're sharing unsolicited personal information. Should I be alarmed?"

"I shared more personal things than that last week," he said dryly, "and trying to deflect attention off your issues and onto mine isn't going to work." A pause. "So, are you just trying to break the wife cycle? Or is this some misguided, chivalrous attempt to preserve my virtue?"

"Your virtue—moral and otherwise—was hopelessly compromised before we ever met," Wilson said with a smirk.

"True." Another pause, and then he cupped a hand to his ear and gestured with his free one. "Go on. And a-one and a-two…"

Silence, a look of puzzlement. "Are you expecting me to…break into song? A little musical number, perhaps a dance to underscore mounting tension? Because if that's the case, I'm not doing it solo."

House shook his head and dropped his hand. "Just the song'll do. You know the one, about not wanting to make the same mistakes over again? You've sung it at least twice and you're starting to sound like you're due for another reprise." He caught the flash of annoyance in both Wilson's eyes and Rona's, but he didn't give them a chance to speak. "I don't buy that you're actually stupid enough not to know better."

Minerva looked over at him, gave him a very low hiss that meant, 'Watch your step,' and he decided to take her advice and wait for Wilson to volunteer something. After all, he wasn't likely to get a real answer if he pissed the other man off too much, which he would if he lingered on the subject of the marriages.

There was an art to this: push just far enough to provoke, but not too much.

"We do now," Rona said after a moment, "and that's why we're doing this. If you're right, and dysfunctional relationships are our pathology…we're trying a change of approach as a prophylactic."

Wilson must really want this message to get through: Rona was expanding one of House's own metaphors.

"We're not your latest outbreak of marriage-itis," Minerva said testily. "You don't need to inoculate just because—"

"Listen for a minute before you jump in with a witty rejoinder, all right?" Rona interrupted. "This is something we'd eventually have done whether last week had happened or not, because we're doing it for ourself. Because it's _necessary_."

He looked to Wilson, let the pressing 'why?' stay silent: he could take Rona's hint, and Wilson had long since acquired an ear for the things he left unsaid.

"This year brought some things into focus for me," he said at last. "When everything was going to hell at work and with our friendship…I talked with Rona, and I talked with a therapist, and I went on the antidepressants—"

He sat up a little straighter: Wilson would have gone to someone for a prescription, of course; but this admission implied, if not currently ongoing sessions, at least more than getting a bottle of pills had strictly required. "Doctor 'I psychoanalyze others as a hobby' voluntarily got on the couch?"

"Just because I'm a doctor doesn't mean I think it's the best idea to self-prescribe psych meds," Wilson said mildly, "and having an outside perspective helped."

House regarded him with interest. "Who'd you see?" He'd hate to think Wilson had drawn conclusions he apparently intended to act on while under the influence of some incompetent. If Wilson surrendered a name, he was going to hunt down a personnel file.

It might be difficult—after the stunt he'd pulled with Stacy and _her_ therapist, he doubted Wilson would consider going to anyone within the hospital—but he could come up with something. He always did.

"If I have a sudden, burning desire to have my file stolen," Wilson said, anticipating the direction of House's thoughts, "I'll be sure to let you know. But the point I'm trying to make… I—_we_ eventually realized that having you and my job be my entire life isn't healthy; so I'm trying to…establish something outside of that."

"Right," he said, almost sharply. Minerva took a step back toward him and grasped his fingers with a paw, pressing herself against his arm. "You want to be with me, so naturally you're pulling away—_that_ makes a lot of sen—"

Rona reared up on her hind legs, front paws bracing her against the table so she could meet his eyes directly. "_Don't_ go there," she said, matching his tone and showing a warning glint of teeth. "We are not abandoning you, or whatever other crap you just came up with. We've had every good reason a hundred times—you've _given_ us every good reason—but it's _not in us_ to do it."

He believed her and conceded a nod as anger cooled, because she had, after all, settled as a wolf for a reason: loyalty to the pack, whether biological or chosen, was too intrinsic to who Wilson was to be defied. "Then explain what you think you're doing," he said, watching Rona drop back to the floor and resume her place beside Wilson. "I'm sure you've analyzed it to death; you know your own reasons."

"I defend you to a point even you think is insane," Wilson said quietly, threading the fingers of one hand through Rona's fur, "and I'll continue to do that. But there has to be more give-and-take than there's been, or I'll start to feel exploited." She gave him an expectant look, probably a few silent words, and after a moment he continued, "Maybe that's okay, to a point, when I'm just with you at work and some evenings, but with…this…if I lived with you…then there'd be no space for me to stand back and rationalize to myself that it's just you being you, and forgive you for driving me crazy."

"Ah," he said sagely. "This is the past year coming back to bite me in the ass."

Minerva turned to face him. "Don't tell me you really thought it wouldn't," she said, speaking aloud for Wilson's benefit. "Even for us, we were being stupid. And then you didn't _listen to me_ when I told you we were getting in over our heads."

He glared at her, remembering several particularly bitter arguments that'd left them heartsick and his shoulder throbbing for no medically valid reason. Psychosomatic pain wasn't as much of a bitch as neuropathic, but he detested it just as strongly. "You don't need to go into that."

"I didn't, much; but why should I enjoy a good 'told you so' less than you?" she said, all but radiating smugness. "And he deserves to know you were at least aware of what you were doing."

"Thank you," Wilson said. Then, to him, "It would probably be redundant to tell you she has a point."

"It would," he agreed, wishing she'd spoken telepathically. _Did you have to do that?_

_If we can sleep with him but not let him know any of what we feel and think, this relationship's not going to last long._

He hated it when she insisted on their better judgment over their comfort.

"But until there's some kind of resolution, understanding—something—about everything we did to each other the past couple of months—if we just pretend nothing happened and go on as usual, it'll all fester and we could start to resent each other, and that's the last thing either of us wants. So for now…"

He could admit the argument made sense: small damages might have been ignored, but not more severe ones (at least, not indefinitely); nothing soured a relationship like resentment (witness Stacy), and neither of them could afford to have this go badly. But still…

It rankled that Wilson felt he had to leave, and House didn't appreciate the stinging reminder of unhealed wounds.

Talking about what was already past and unchangeable was a waste of time. They both knew he'd been an ass and too stubborn, and Wilson had meddled too much and in all the wrong ways, and they'd just barely managed to get through with enough of their friendship left to salvage. What good would it do to restate facts? Sure, they could sit and babble about feelings and rationalizations and assignment of blame, but hours of words wouldn't hold the weight of a single decisive action, and Wilson had chosen his.

And whether or not he could tolerate boundaries depended on where and how flexible they were—but in order to find that out, he'd have to let them go up.

He could always find some way through if they didn't turn out to be acceptable.

_Not to mention,_ Minerva said, _that if he actually follows through, he's no longer feeding his need for need. Making this different from the train wrecks of marriages one through three._

"Fine. For now." To Wilson's look of surprise, he said sardonically, "What, you were expecting more fight than that?"

"Frankly, yes," Wilson said. "The idea of change usually—"

"Not all change," he pointed out. "As I recall, we weren't always sleeping together, and there were no complaints when we started." A pause, then, with the kind of smile he knew would set off alarm bells in Wilson's head, "Anyway, for you, this kind of thing is an anomaly."

Wilson exchanged a glance with Rona. "Given a choice, I might have preferred 'upset' to 'obsessed,'" he said dryly. "That look never bodes well."

He feigned innocence. "What look?"

"That one that makes me feel like I have 'one thousand pieces, ages twelve to adult' tattooed on my forehead."

"Oh, give us some credit," Minerva huffed. "We actually are capable of learning from past experience when we feel like it. But you're changing the rules, and that's not something you've ever done. We're intrigued."

"That phrase or any of its variations from you is a danger signal," Wilson said, picking up his fork again and taking a bite of pasta. Judging by the face he made, it'd gotten cold.

"You have your coping mechanisms; I have mine," he said with relish, resuming his own meal. He didn't know what Wilson was complaining about: it wasn't bad cold. "And you can't tell me you didn't know what you were getting when you went into this," he said, swallowing the mouthful and gesturing to indicate Rona. "Like she said, I'm very honest about being a prickly bastard."

"To several faults," Wilson agreed, but smiled. "Just…whatever you do, avoid the life-threatening and illegal, all right? You've had more than enough of that brand of fun for a lifetime."

"Killjoy," he said sourly.

Minerva met Rona's eyes and nodded; and Wilson saw it too, or else felt Rona's relief, because the easing of tension was slight but visible as he relaxed in his chair. "Thank you."

He didn't acknowledge that, but he didn't really have to.

—

"You didn't have to come along, you know," Wilson said as he ushered Rona in ahead of him and heaved his suitcase through the door.

House leaned back against the wall, surveying the jumble of furniture in the middle of the room while Minerva moved from his side to climb onto the nearest armchair. The pieces were mismatched, but then, most of them were the legacy of the broken marriages: he could pick out the plain, relatively inexpensive furniture Sarah had favored, when Wilson had been younger and making a lower salary; Bonnie's ultra-modern chic; Julie's more classic, opulent tastes.

_Why do I suspect they got most of the good furniture?_ Minerva said.

Wilson should toss it all now and get things that would put his mark on the place, if he wanted to put his own life together so badly. "Yes, I did." He paused, scrutinized an extremely ugly chair. "Was Julie colorblind?"

"No."

That was depressing. But then, for every Botticelli or Michelangelo, there were fifteen million idiots convinced that they saw beauty in a combination of shades that clashed blindingly at ten yards. "Then she must've been drunk," he decided. "God, if I thought _your_ taste in patterns sucked…"

"I don't need company to unpack boxes and shove chairs and end tables around," Wilson said, letting the remark pass with no more than a vaguely defensive glance down at his tie.

House mimicked a tolerant smile that always annoyed him when Wilson used it, then moved over to the pile of boxes in the corner, Minerva abandoning her seat to join him. "This is not about company. The fact that you've been staying in a hotel for nearly a year doesn't say much for your taste in living spaces, and the last thing you need is another bland, mediocre place to sleep."

As he spoke, he pulled his keys out of his pocket and used one to slit the tape on a box marked 'CDs' in Wilson's familiar, barely-legible scrawl, scanning the titles. Classical, classical—what was that? He picked it up, glanced at the archetypal rolling hillside on the case. "You listen to _New Age instrumentals_?"

"They're relaxing," Wilson said. "And between my practice and certain reasons that shall remain nameless—"

"Present!" he interjected cheerfully, raising a hand without turning around.

"—I sometimes get a little stressed. Why are you going through my things?"

He could hear Wilson's approach, accompanied by the _click_ of Rona's nails on the wood floor. "Differential diagnosis," he said, taking in a couple of Broadway albums (how stereotypically gay was that?) and some soft jazz. "Granted, usually you check the home for causes of the symptoms, so checking for symptoms of the cause is doing it a little backwards." Some stuff by the Beatles (he had to admit _Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_ was appropriate for a serial bridegroom-cum-divorcee), so maybe not all of it was bad, and none of it had come from the wives.

Closing the box, he glanced over at Minerva, who'd moved and was sitting expectantly on a box of 'Photographs.' With an approving smile—those would be telling—he lifted her off, took his keys out of his pocket and used one to cut the tape sealing the box, then opened it and flipped through an album. There were pictures of Wilson as a kid, with Rona in a variety of pre-settled shapes: a sleek tortoiseshell cat curled on his lap, a hawk wheeling above his head; once a monarch butterfly, brilliant wings open to the sun, sitting lightly on the back of his hand.

He flipped past pictures of Wilson's parents and brothers—confirming they were there was enough—and then paused at a series of shots of himself.

One of him at the whiteboard jotting down symptoms, Minerva caught in a rare moment of stillness on the rolling chair pulled up adjacent; another, taken from the clinic, showed him and Minerva heading for the exit with Cuddy (whose apparent calm was belied by her red fox dæmon's bared teeth and laid-back ears) in pursuit; and a third recalled that oncology benefit the previous year, with him pulled together and in a tux, riding the high of a successful diagnosis as he played poker with a laughing Wilson.

"Are you quite done?"

He turned to read the mix of exasperation and resignation on Wilson's face, checking it against the glint of mirth in Rona's eyes: they'd expected him to do this, so there was no point in real annoyance.

The 'Miscellanea' box was tempting, but he'd seen enough of Wilson's things to support diagnosis one: he actually intended to live here, not just drop in every now and then to sleep, and that fit with what he'd said about wanting a life outside of work and their…friend-partnership. He nodded. "Yeah, I think so. I'm just going to go through the bedroom and the bathroom first."

"I haven't been here long enough to have installed a medicine cabinet full of incriminating items," Wilson pointed out, closing the boxes again. "And there's nothing in the bedroom yet but the bed." Beside him, Rona shook her head.

"Go ahead. We know better than to get in the way of these little fact-finding missions by now." She met his eyes, then said lightly, "But please, Doctor, share the diagnosis on the way out."

"Will do," he said. "That's the best part." He shifted his weight to the cane and hauled himself to his feet before heading for the bedroom, Minerva shuffling along after him.

The mattress wasn't made up, just sitting there on the bedstead, but he could see the most important thing whether there were sheets on it or not: it was big. Bigger than Wilson would need, even if he slept—as he generally had, House knew, before they'd begun to share a bed that hadn't had the space—with Rona beside him.

"He wants us to spend some nights here," Minerva said for him, climbing up to test the give of the mattress, kneading it with front paws (digits curled slightly inward, so her nails wouldn't snag on the fabric). "Nice. And you thought he was—"

"I don't," he said brusquely. "I just want to know what the hell he thinks he's—"

"Uh-huh," she said, her tone making it very clear she didn't believe that for a second. Then, switching to silent speech, _Those fabulous deceptive skills work on everyone else, Greg, but they don't on me. We don't like having the rules changed on us any more than he says we do—maybe we're willing to go with it, because it's interesting, but saying we're completely comfortable is an overstatement._

He glanced out the open door, where Wilson, sleeves rolled up and face slightly flushed, was spreading out the cluster of furniture and pushing it around. The scrape of its movement might have stopped him from hearing what they'd said aloud—but Rona's hearing was far better, and of course Wilson knew what Rona did. "Keep the commentary silent. Doctor Psychoanalyst doesn't need any more material to work with next time he drags me to the couch."

"Please," she scoffed. "Like he doesn't already know as well as anyone outside us can how our mind works?" But she dropped the subject anyway and climbed down to lead the way into the bathroom, her paws making a faint padding sound against the tile.

The cabinet beneath the sink was empty, but there was a thick metal bar anchored to the wall of the combination bathtub/shower. For his use again, obviously—it wasn't like Wilson were unfortunate enough to need it. "The accommodating partner strikes again," he said dryly, closing his free hand around cool burnished steel.

_Rona said they weren't walling us out,_ Minerva said. _And since she obviously can't lie, you can't be surprised to find physical proof backing her up._

Diagnosis two: Wilson probably intended this cautious progression to end with commitment, if he was anticipating nights spent together this early and apparently choosing living space with House in mind: the ground floor, single-level setup was designed to be cripple-friendly. "He wants us here," he agreed, releasing the bar and letting his hand fall to his side. _Question is—_

_Oh, don't even!_ she broke in, baring her teeth at him. _He's not treating this like those sham marriages. Just because he doesn't want to move in right away…_ A short silence, then, more calmly, _You understand why._

Of course he did: a year or a year-and-a-half ago, a few inches of 'personal space' and a layer or two of clothing, on or off, wouldn't have made much difference to their usual intimacy; but the aftermath of the ketamine, the stolen scrips, that bastard Tritter and his goddamn vendetta running out of the hospital basement—all of that had blown 'usual' straight to hell. What had or could have been was taking a new form; subtle currents were shifting.

And he didn't want to talk about it. He talked when he needed a sounding board, or to verify details, or learn something he didn't already know; he didn't need to talk to someone with whom he shared a mind. _He's going to make me have that conversation at some point. Don't make me suffer through it twice._

_And have to repeat ourself later?_ she said. _Perish the thought._ Turning, she moved back into the living room, and he followed—no reason not to; he had the answers he'd been looking for.

The furniture was in something more or less resembling order now, except for one or two pieces too heavy for Wilson to move alone. "Want me to page the minions?" he asked. "Chase and Foreman are able-bodied."

"Volunteering your staff to move my furniture?"

"I usually send them rooting through complete strangers' houses," he said with a dismissive wave of a hand. "I'm sure they'd be happy to do something that can't get them slapped with a felony charge."

"Tempting, but no," Wilson said wryly, dropping onto Julie's armchair. That was an improvement, because it meant House couldn't see so much of it. "And you're right—I should have this reupholstered."

"You should have it burned."

"It's actually comfortable, or else we would," Rona said. She'd moved to the sofa adjacent, sprawled out full-length with her head resting on a throw pillow. "And actually, Julie wasn't drunk—she knew exactly how ugly it was when she chose the fabric."

"The Armchair of Passive-Aggressiveness, I assume?" House said. He wasn't impressed: there were much, much more effective and creative ways of getting on Wilson's nerves than that. "You weren't there to help choose the pattern—"

"So she chose something hideous to remind me of my neglect and put it in the den," Wilson said with a nod. "Yeah. So, how did your first legal home-search go?"

He sat down on the arm of Wilson's chair. It creaked a protest, but—unfortunately—held. "Not nearly as interesting as the illegal ones," he said. "Most of the significant details are still packed up, and there wasn't even mold and pestilence in the bathroom."

"That would be a positive, from most people's point of view," Wilson said. "And?"

"You have a cripple bar installed in your shower."

"Grab bar," Rona corrected, "and you know that."

"It's mine; I'll call it what I want." He paused, shot Wilson a sidelong look. "Of course, that's assuming it _is_ for my use and you don't just intend to live here until you're old and feeble enough to need it."

"Even I don't plan that far ahead," Wilson said. "What, is it bad I don't want you to slip and break something?"

"No; one bar I can live with. Although,"—he let a sly, teasing note into his tone—"if you _really_ wanted to be accommodating, you'd've found a place with a Jacuzzi instead of a shower."

"That would be past 'accommodating' and into 'overindulgent,'" Rona said, half-curling into a ball to make room on the sofa. Minerva climbed up and nestled in between two overstuffed pillows. "There's a difference between caring about your welfare and pandering to your every whim. Besides—we _do_ pander to most of them."

True. "Point," he conceded. "Anyway, between the layout, the bar and the promisingly large bed, you obviously want me to spend time here. And from your charming assortment of photos, music, and assorted mementoes to be cataloged at a later date, I'm concluding you intend to actually live here, and not just stop in to sleep every now and again."

"Meaning you're sincere about this whole 'getting a life' thing," Minerva finished, "and we have more than enough room in it." Her tone addressed that last to him more than Wilson, but it didn't matter.

"That was the point," Wilson agreed. There was a pause; once he started to speak but apparently thought better of whatever he'd been about to say and broke off, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a gleaming silver key, newly-cut, which he held out to House. "Here. I thought I'd save you the trouble of having to steal the key and make a copy yourself—and I'd prefer to know that you have it, rather than be surprised when you drop in unannounced in the middle of the night."

House took the key, warm with Wilson's body heat, and ran a fingertip over the precise notches in its blade. "Thoughtful of you," he said, taking out his key-ring and slipping it on beside the key to his own apartment—a dull, well-used bronze which clinked satisfyingly against the new addition. On the couch, Minerva moved to give Rona an affectionate nudge. "Thanks," he said. "If I ever get lonely at three A.M.—"

"I'm sure I'll be the first to know," Wilson said ruefully.

He pocketed the keys again without confirming the fact. "You could have handed that over earlier," he said. "It's unfair to add a new symptom after I've already given a diagnosis."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Why? Does it tell you some secret the bed and the shower didn't?"

"It makes an emphatic statement," he said, rising from the chair arm (another creak as it readjusted to the lack of weight) and picking up Minerva to make room for himself on the couch. He wasn't quite near enough to touch Rona without reaching out, but closer than a platonic friend could be. "_Mi casa es su casa_—very domestic."

"I do think we can make this work," Wilson said. "Maybe it's not typical, but…" He shrugged, sat down on the small portion of the sofa Rona wasn't taking up. "The conventional approach isn't necessarily best."

"I give wise counsel," he said, because he'd definitely been the one to impart that lesson.

"With death-defying and morally ambiguous object lessons," Wilson said, "but yes, sometimes." He leaned back against the cushions, resting a half-extended arm on Rona's back. "I can't cook until I've unpacked my kitchen and gone for groceries, but do you want takeout? Chinese, Indian, Thai?"

"Indian," House decided, meeting Minerva's eyes and answering her thrumming purr with a grin. "I think…I'm in the mood for spice."

**END.**


End file.
